Living through loss: A sister’s journey toward vulnerability
Family07.02.2025
It’s said that grief is love persevering, but when my brother Danny died by suicide on February 9, 2004, my grief didn’t feel like love — it felt like failure, anger, and helplessness all wrapped into one unrelenting weight.
Danny, the fiery redhead in our family of five siblings, was as complicated as he was brilliant. He could quote Yeats while playing his fiddle with the passion of a true artist. A hot-headed hockey player, a middle child, and the apple of our mother’s eye, he was full of contradictions. Yet behind the charm and talent lay a young man struggling to find his place in the world.
I remember the day vividly. The call came, and my thoughts raced: Maybe it’s just an overdose. Maybe they can pump his stomach. Maybe it’s not too late. But it was too late. By the time I arrived at the Almonte General Hospital, it was clear that Danny had made the ultimate decision to leave this world. In that moment, hope evaporated, leaving behind a circus of police, coroners, and unanswered questions. It felt like a personal crime scene — a homicide of the spirit.
An onslaught of anger
His death fell on a cruel anniversary: ten years to the day our mother, Nancy, was taken to the hospital following a brain aneurysm. She never came home, passing away on March 6, 1993, at just 43 years old. Her loss left a mark on the whole family, especially Danny. He was only 13 at the time, and while the rest of us grieved in our own ways, Danny seemed to spiral inward.
He struggled with brushes with the law, battles with depression, and fleeting attempts at sobriety. Yet, there were glimmers of hope. Just a day before he became an angel, he proudly told classmates about his sobriety journey. He seemed to be getting better — or so we thought.
After Danny’s death, I was angry. Angry at Danny for leaving us. Angry at myself for not seeing the signs. Angry at the stigma surrounding mental health that keeps so many people silent. Over time, I realized that my anger wasn’t just about losing Danny. It was about the stories we never told, the emotions we bottled up, and the questions we were too scared to ask.
Advocating for others
I’ve since learned that silence serves no one. I’ve started talking. About my brother. About my own mental health. About the resilience it takes to move forward. Vulnerability became my strength. It has allowed me to honour Danny’s legacy while advocating for more open conversations around mental health.
That advocacy began with Women for Mental Health at The Royal, where I am a founding member. My personal healing took root while championing The Royal’s mission to bring hope, recovery, and innovation to mental healthcare.
And now through my role as a board member with Ottawa Salus, I feel I am continuing to make a difference. Ottawa Salus provides supportive and transitional housing along with comprehensive services for individuals facing mental illness and substance use challenges, bringing dignity and hope to our community.
I think Danny might have needed these resources had he not chosen his angel wings.
Danny’s life — and his death — remind me every day that the stories we share are as important as the ones we live. And in sharing, we heal.
